Rat Patrol: Childish Things
by Syl
Summary: Moffitt comes home after the disaster at Dunkirk.


**Summary**: Moffitt comes home after the disaster at Dunkirk.

**Disclaimer:** _The Rat Patrol _and all related characters belong to Mirisch-Rich Productions, Tom Gries Productions, and United Artists Television; this is an original story that doesn't intend to infringe on their copyright. Constructive feedback--the positive and negative kind--is welcome and encouraged.

**Copyright**: December 2006

* * *

Childish Things

by Syl Francis

Private Jack Moffitt paid the taxicab driver and, changing his cane from one hand to the other, took his kit bag from the driver and thanked him. The black beret and cap insignia identified him as a member of The Royal Scots Greys.

"My pleasure, Guv'nor. Take care of that leg." With a polite nod and a wave, the driver climbed back into the cab and drove off. Jack stood and watched as it disappeared down the tree-lined street.

A tall man by nature, Jack had always tended toward the slim side; however, his recent stay in the hospital had left him almost gaunt in appearance. His usually bright, intelligent eyes were drawn from pain and exhaustion; his ready smile replaced with a haunted look. The Distinguished Service Medal over his left breast pocket was new, awarded by His Most Gracious Majesty for gallantry and faithful service to the Crown during the general retreat and subsequent evacuation from Dunkirk.

_Probably the first time in military history a soldier was rewarded for turning tail and running from the enemy_, he thought bitterly. Unbidden, vivid images of that day flashed before him…

It was May 1940. The day had dawned with a delicate pink sunrise kissing the horizon, which was soon transformed into a warm, golden sheen. By mid-morning the blue, cloudless sky complemented the red poppies that carpeted the rolling green meadows. The layout of the land before him reminded him of _Poppies at Argenteuil, _his favorite painting by Monet. The late spring morning hinted at summer just around the corner. Only this particular summer, the French countryside would not live up to the pastoral idyll envisioned by Monet. Instead of red poppies, the meadows would soon run red with blood...

_Home._ He was actually standing in front of his house. He reflected on the last time he had stood here. It was shortly after Germany's invasion of Poland in September 1939. He had recently completed his Masters thesis in archeology and was in line for an adjunct position at Cambridge. However, war with Germany had become a certainty, and Jack did what any young Englishman who dreamed of adventure and believed in performing his duty to his King and country: He enlisted in the army.

Proud of his decision, he informed his parents after the fact. He remembered striding up the front walk, wearing his new uniform. From their reaction, one would think that Jack had told them he enlisted in the German army.

"Oh, Jack, how could you enlist?" his mother asked. "You should've spoken to your father first. You don't know what kind of men you'll be associating with. Who knows what their backgrounds are? Why some may even be criminals!"

To Jack's surprise his father agreed. "Son, your mother's right. A young man of your talents and means, and well, your breeding…you'd be wasted in the ranks."

"Are you saying that I'm too good to associate with men of lesser means? Men who may not have had the same advantages as I? Men who because of accident of birth have had to struggle in order to survive?" Jack shook his head, bewildered. "You taught me better than that, Father. You and Mother have always impressed upon me that a man, no matter where he comes from, deserves to be treated equally and with respect." He studied their faces carefully, hurt by what was to him a perplexing shift in attitude. "Has everything you've ever taught me been a lie?"

"Jack, you know that's not what I meant," his father protested. "With your skills and abilities you would better serve your country as an officer."

Jack stared at his father. How often had he heard those words in the past: "_With your gifts and abilities…_?" They were the same words his parents used when they shipped him off to Eton College at thirteen. Jack wanted to attend the local day school, but they would not hear of it. His father was an Eton scholar, and Jack had been on the school's registry list since birth. Besides, they said, a young man should experience the discipline required to live away from home. It built character.

Ironically, when Jack wanted to attend the University of Cairo to pursue his studies in archeology, his parents insisted that he attend Cambridge University, less than a kilometer from home, and where Jack's father served as head of the Antiquities Department. Like a dutiful son, Jack enrolled in Cambridge and completed both his undergraduate and graduate degrees.

If Jack allowed himself to think about it, he was little more than a twenty-three year old child--protected, coddled, and cooed over. By enlisting in the ranks without his parents' consent instead of applying for a commission, Jack proved that he was what they believed him to be--an impetuous child incapable of making rational decisions.

Jack tried to explain his reasoning, but his words fell flat on his own ears.

"I didn't apply for a commission because I'm no soldier. What do I know about leading men in battle?"

"Jack, that would be part of your officer's training--" his father began, but Jack interrupted.

"Father, I'll fight for my country. I'll even die for England, if I must. But I won't order other men to their deaths. I won't hold their lives in my hands."

At his words, his parents stood mutely, unable to respond; Jack walked out shortly thereafter. Thus, with his parents' disappointment weighing heavily on his heart, Jack was deployed to France...

* * *

The British defensive line held at first but was soon falling back. Jack volunteered to remain behind to delay the enemy advance; his tank commander, a veteran of twelve years, did not. Jack found himself appointed tank commander, responsible for the lives of his crew. He and the others knew they would likely end up as prisoners of war, if they survived.

"Fire!" Jack trained his binoculars on the target. A plume of fire and black smoke indicated a hit. Jack scanned for the next target. "Left fifty! Up fifty!"

McAdams adjusted the main gun. "Ready!"

"Fire!" Almost before confirming another hit, Jack sighted the next target. His tank crew was providing covering fire for the battalion's retreat to the coast. However, they were only postponing the inevitable. The advancing _Panzers_ were proving relentless, breaking through all along the defensive line.

Unexpectedly, a general call came over the wireless, "Each man for himself!"

"Smitty!" Jack addressed the tank driver. "Move out!"

"Whereto?"

"The coast, you idiot!" Roderick, the radio operator, replied. "Where else?"

As they retreated, Jack kept a close eye out for signs of enemy pursuit. A flash on the horizon was his only warning. "Incoming!" Jack cried. The tank took a direct hit, and Jack, a chunk of shrapnel in his leg, managed to scramble out of the turret, and escape. His crew did not, the burning tank becoming their coffin. Wounded, exhausted and hungry, Jack somehow evaded capture for the better part of the afternoon; however, the rest of the day's activities were lost in a panicked blur.

He recalled bandaging the wound, a deep rent that ran from the knee to the calf, as best he could; crawling through prickly thickets that caught his clothing and tore at his face and hands; crossing ice-cold streams that soothed his throbbing leg wound but chilled him through. At one point he heard voices raised in anger--German voices. Frightened, he wormed his way toward the sounds and cautiously peered through the heavy brush.

A German infantry squad was processing a dozen British POWs, tying their hands behind their backs, and forcing them to kneel. Two enemy soldiers stood guard on the flanks, their weapons held ready. At a nod from the officer in charge, two other men moved up and set up a machinegun behind the line of prisoners. To Jack's horror the officer signaled the guards to stand back, and the machinegun opened fire.

Jack did not--could not--stay and watch. Instead, he ran as fast and as far as his wound would allow him. With every jarring step, his injury shot painful lances up and down his leg. Worse, from his lightheadedness, he suspected that it had started bleeding again. Jack had to find food and shelter for the night. And, after what he witnessed, he had to avoid capture.

_And just how are you to accomplish that miracle, Jack?_

He shrugged, unable to answer himself. It was a question best left for the morning. He trudged through the night, the uneven ground making each step an agony. Exhausted and weak from loss of blood, Jack tripped over an exposed root and fell headlong down a short incline. His injured leg struck an outcropping, and Jack's world spun white then black.

When he awoke, Jack discovered that he had lucked into the hands of the nascent French Resistance. Apparently, his fall landed him in the cornfields of Monsieur Ouvret, a farmer, who discovered him while checking his crop. Ouvret and his daughter Gabrielle carried Jack to their barn where they hid him and nursed him as best they could.

With the Ouvrets' help--especially, Gabrielle's--Jack made it safely home to England. And now he was back in Cambridge, following the debacle, or "miracle" as the newspapers called it, at Dunkirk.

He recalled his last week in the hospital. His regimental commander, Colonel Charles Winthrop, made a surprise visit. Winthrop shook hands with Jack and pinned the DSM on his hospital gown, adding, "Moffitt, I am recommending you for a promotion to lieutenant--"

"But I don't want a bloody promotion--!" Jack protested.

"Moffitt, remember whom you're addressing," Winthrop warned mildly.

"Sorry, sir," Jack muttered.

Winthrop studied Jack closely. "Moffitt, I don't hand over the lives of my soldiers to just anyone. I think you have what it takes, but I won't force you. How much longer will you be in Hospital?"

"A week, sir."

"Very well…you have seven days to reconsider. If by then you haven't changed your mind, then I shall withdraw the offer."

"Thank you, sir." Jack felt confident he would not change his mind. He felt the DSM and promotion came at the cost of the lives of his men and possibly of Gabrielle and her father. Therefore, when his parents visited, he neither informed them of Winthrop's offer nor that he had turned it down. They would never understand, and Jack did not wish to revisit the old arguments.

Now, as he visualized the inside of the house, each room stirred a unique childhood memory: His father reading to him at bedtime; his mother serving tea in the solarium; his parents sitting in the drawing room without talking, comfortable in each other's company. Suddenly uneasy, Jack realized that in the months he had been away, there had been no changes either to the interior of the house or to his parents' attitude. He might be a decorated combat veteran, but in their eyes, he was still little more than a callow youth.

But after what he had witnessed--incompetence, death, and sacrifice--Jack felt far from young…

* * *

During the "Sitzkrieg" in France, the Allies sat and waited for Jerry to make his appearance. The men were forced to repeatedly clean their equipment and run endless drills. Jack remembered being so bored, he looked forward to combat as a means to alleviate tedium.

"Why don't we just cross the bloody border and attack them?" Roderick asked, pacing in frustration.

"Why don't you put a sock in it?" McAdams mumbled. He rolled over on his stomach and closed his eyes.

"Look, Mrs. Roderick's little boy Raymond didn't join the army to sit around, cleaning his rifle, day in, day out!"

"Oh, get on with you, Roderick," Smitty jeered. "Your Mum was never married!"

In an instant Roderick hurled himself at Smitty, and the two men were trading punches. Jack and McAdams pulled them apart, but only after each antagonist suffered from a split lip and black eye.

"Serves you both right," Jack snapped. "And you've just volunteered for latrine duty!"

"What? Sergeant Diggory would've just laughed it off!" Roderick protested.

"What gives, Jack?" Smitty asked. "We was just lettin' off some steam."

"Perhaps you haven't noticed, but Diggory's not here. I am. And until you two learn to make better use of your time, you've got latrine duty."

Unfortunately, this had also proven a period of poor planning and shortsightedness on the part of the Allied generals. Although they knew the German juggernaut had been unstoppable in Poland and the Low Countries, they still sat on their inertia and allowed Jerry to surprise them.

"And it cost McAdams, Smitty, and Roderick their lives," Jack said bitterly. His friends had depended on him to get them home, even as he had depended on his superiors. In the end their trust proved misplaced.

"Each man for himself…" he muttered. It was the last resort call of a ship going down with all hands or that of a lost cause. In all fairness they had called for volunteers to remain behind, but only after it was apparent that the battle was indeed lost.

Jack thought of Colonel Winthrop's offer and shook his head. How could he accept a commission? How could he join the ranks of the same incompetent officers responsible for the deaths of his men? On the other hand, did he not owe it to their memories to take the promotion and ensure that their replacements would not be subjected to such neglect?

Were his parents right? Would he better serve his country as an officer? Suddenly nervous about the inevitable confrontation that awaited him inside, he put it off by gazing down the quiet street, the familiar sights doing little to alleviate his black mood.

He had grown up in this neighborhood for the better part of his childhood. All things considered, it had been a relatively happy existence. He looked around, having almost forgotten mid-August in Cambridge when the historic city boasted a burst of bright colors from innumerable scattered flower gardens, miles of green, manicured lawns, and soughing leafy canopies overhead that provided restful, cool shade.

Only two days ago, he was evacuated along with the rest of his hospital ward to the nearest bomb shelter. The Germans had started a new phase in bringing England to her knees--air raids over London. It was now August, and the air war had only just started.

Yet, standing here in his familiar childhood surroundings, Jack felt as if the war were a million miles away. He breathed in the familiar, tea-like scent wafting from his mother's garden, her award-winning Lady Hillington tea roses in full bloom. Their warm, golden coloring contrasting with the pink damask roses their neighbors down the lane preferred.

At long last, he turned and started up the long, winding drive toward the timbered Tudor manor. The stately home, built in the late sixteenth century, was rumored to have served as a temporary safe house for the Lord Protector when the Protectorate crumbled in the spring of 1659. Beyond the house, tall oak, hawthorn, and ash trees dotted the immaculately kept grounds, providing abundant shade to the surrounding estate. Jack smiled reminiscently. The trees had been a great source of high adventure for him during many a long summer afternoon.

Those days long past, before he was sent off to school, were carefree and full of derring-do, at least, in his imagination. In truth, the trees helped fill his empty days while he waited for his father to return from some far distant corner of the world. He remembered anxiously anticipating his renowned archeologist father's homecomings, waiting to be tossed in the air and held in his bear hug, squeezed until he almost could not breathe.

More importantly, he recalled his father's stories of long-dead civilizations, encounters with savage tribes, and hair-raising escapades. These last, of course, were saved for the moments when Jack and his father were alone in his room, for tales of danger and such were not for the "more delicate sensibilities" of Jack's mother, as his father would say. The more bloodcurdling hazards faced by the scholar/adventurer that was his father were a secret between the two Moffitt men. It was a life that Jack had longed to share with him someday. And one that by turning down his adjunct position at Cambridge, he had put off indefinitely.

He spotted his favorite climbing tree, the Common Oak, along the perimeter of the property, and aided by the use of the cane, he made his way to it, his pronounced limp the only outward reminder of his time in France. He purposefully tamped down any bleak thoughts of his dead crew and of Gabrielle, the guilt over leaving her behind still almost palpable.

Placing his open hand on the trunk of the oak tree, he ran his fingers along its rough surface, seeking out the initials and date he had carved there on his thirteenth birthday, the summer before being sent to Eton: JM--July 1930. The oak had been a sturdy and silent companion during all of the bold undertakings that he had conjured up. Searching the high branches, he found his favorite niche, the third branch from the top. He smiled, remembering the many summer days he spent perched up there, reading from his favorite books and then acting out the endless varieties of "what happened next."

He thought of the villains whom he had forced to "stand to," of His Most Gracious Majesty knighting him for heroic and faithful service to the Crown, of his winning the hand of a beautiful maiden whom he had saved from a fate worse than death.

He thought of Gabrielle, waiting in occupied France on the other side of the English Channel. He knew that sometimes the heroes in books were forced to retreat from the relentless armies of the evil king and even abandon the damsel in distress. However, the hero always found a way to return in triumph, defeat the villain, and rescue the fair maiden.

No one ever told him that a hero sometimes waited years before he returned to save his lady fair. Nor had they related her probable fate while she awaited rescue. Worse, his books never hinted at the horror of men trapped inside a burning tank, their agonized cries silenced only when the tank went up in a massive explosion.

Jack closed his fist and pounded the oak tree, a jolt of pain shooting up his arm. Grasping his hurt hand with the other, he saw that he had drawn blood. Thankfully, no bones were broken. He leaned against the oak and closed his eyes, overcome by pain that had nothing to do with his injuries...

* * *

He recalled the day the SS soldiers pulled up to the Ouvret farmhouse. The Germans were scouring the French countryside for British stragglers who were making their way slowly toward the beachhead at Dunkirk. Jack had witnessed the fate in store for him should he be caught, and he knew that a worse fate awaited anyone caught aiding the British.

The morning had started routinely. Gabrielle washed the breakfast dishes, while Jack dried. However, Jack disturbed the peace by bringing up the same argument he had raised for the previous three mornings. Gabrielle's father had arranged for Jack's safe passage to the coast, and Jack wanted Gabrielle to accompany him. Just as before, Gabrielle refused.

Monsieur Ouvret would take Jack in a hay wagon to a safe house near the coast. There, Ouvret would hand him over to members of the underground who would see to his transport to Dunkirk. Jack accepted being treated like so much baggage, but he could not accept the idea of leaving Gabrielle behind. Frustrated over matters beyond his control, he grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him.

"Come with me," he begged. "We can both get away."

Gabrielle shook her head. "I cannot. I must stay with Papa. He has no one else."

"I won't leave you," he declared. "If you won't go with me, then I'll stay, too."

"_Monsieur_," Ouvret called urgently from the kitchen door. "My contacts inform me that Colonel Rettig heads this way. Please, the cart waits outside. We must leave now!"

Gabrielle took Jack's hand in hers. "You cannot stay, _cherie_. You have your duty, as I have mine. The _Bosche_…they win today. One day you will return with many of your countrymen. That day, the _Bosche_ will not win."

"Gabrielle…who knows when that day will come? It could be years away. You and I…we may not even be alive to see it."

"_Monsieur_, please!" Ouvret insisted. "Colonel Rettig…he brings many soldiers!"

"Perhaps we will not live to see it, _cherie_, but it is enough to know that the liberation will come some day." Gabrielle placed her hands on his face and pulled him down to her. As Jack's arms enfolded her to him, his heart ached with the realization that their first kiss would likely be their last.

With Ouvret's urging, Jack grabbed his makeshift crutch and hobbled to the door. Pausing, he turned and faced her. "I'll be back for you. I promise."

"I shall be here, waiting."

As the cart pulled slowly away from the farm, Jack saw Gabrielle's tears of goodbye. Blinking rapidly, she replaced them with a bright smile as a German staff car drove up, followed by a troop transport.

"Colonel Rettig," she greeted, walking up to the SS officer. She took his arm in hers, before Rettig could order his men to stop the cart. Her closeness distracted him enough to give her father time to carry Jack to safety. "It is an honor, _mon Colonel_. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Rettig's harsh lines softened appreciatively as his eyes drank in Gabrielle's beauty. "_Mademoiselle_, I am afraid that I am here on business." He sighed as if exhausted by the heavy burden of command. "We hunt stragglers, you see. They are like vermin infesting your lovely countryside."

"_Oui._" Gabrielle nodded sympathetically. "You must be tired. Here…why not come inside and have a nice glass of cognac? Papa--" She pointed with her chin at the receding cart. "--will not return for several hours."

The last Jack saw of her, Gabrielle was leading Rettig into the farmhouse, her coquettish smile offering him something more interesting than the contents of a broken-down cart...

* * *

Jack covered his eyes. No, his books had never mentioned any of this.

Slowly, he turned away from the oak tree, and leaning heavily on his cane, began the long, painful walk back to the house. He knew that Gabrielle was not the only woman who had been left behind to suffer at the hands of a conquering army. She would not be the last. And unlike the heroes of old, he would not arrive in time to save her from a fate worse than death. Similarly, he knew that his men were not the first, nor would they be the last soldiers to die in battle.

_"When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things."_

Jack was no longer a child dreaming of adventure. He was a soldier who had survived his first battle and was now living the painful reality of a world at war. It was time to think like a man and shoulder his responsibilities. He would not accept the commission--not as an act of defiance against his parents, but because this was how he could best honor the memory of those who died serving under him and of those who risked their lives to save his. His place was in the Ranks, fighting alongside men like Smitty, Roderick, and McAdams. This is where he belonged, and this is where he would serve.

It was time to put away all childish things.

The End


End file.
